http://www.drownedinsound.com/articles/3943.html

Spraydog, Saab 77 and The Four Mary’s

the venue: Newcastle The Cluny
the date: Thu 23rd May 2002

We get to the Cluny later that we’d planned tonight, mainly due to the fact that we haven’t quite yet mastered 
the Sunderland to Newcastle Metro link, which whilst not being quite rocket science, confuses the fuck out of me. 
The consequences of this are that we miss opening band the Four Mary’s. Which is a shitter. I was informed that 
they ruled in a folksy punksy kinda way, which sounds like the kind of thing I’d love. Note to myself: must learn 
how to understand simple transport systems.

Saab 77 are from Leeds and are fucking ace. Do you like Pavement? Do you like Archers of Loaf? Do you like 
Sebadoh? If you don’t, why fucking not? They look like swimming bath attendants, they sound like the 
aforementioned, only with an impressive stamp of individuality. The guitarist plays a tune solo. In French. The 
bass player keeps knocking the mike stand over, yet merely sighs and stands it back up again. The drummer 
plays drums like Bob Bert taking math lessons. I warm to them, like a slow burning candle. By the time they end 
their set, my heart is in flames. Ace stuff, come back soon y’hear?

It’s the way James is rapidly becoming the lo fi Oliver Reed, appearing more and more pissed with every 
Spraydog gig I have the good fortune to catch, lolloping around the stage grinning and swaying, lost in the 
tunes. It’s the way Chris hammers his drums like Matthew Fletcher tilted to 45%, his head lopping to one side, 
his body tilted to the other. It’s the way Maria runs around the stage banging her head with her microphone, like 
a fan that’s been granted permission to take part in the proceedings. Yet she does this every gig. The way she 
skips and hops with no co-ordination, yet seems like the coolest POP STAR this side of Kim Deal. It’s the way 
Steve stabs at his beautiful, beautiful guitar like he’s sawing logs, leading the charge, grinning with pride at the 
pop gems he’s constructed. It’s the way Phil makes noises out of his guitar that guitars don’t make, or the way 
he looks extremely proud of his shoes, whilst making noises with his guitar that guitars don’t make. It’s for 
these reasons that I love this band so. “I don’t know, so tell me, my head hurts” scream Maria and Steve on the 
glorious pop rush that is ‘Aspirin’, and if I wasn’t so bastard self-conscious I’d be whizzing round with glee, 
instead of merely bubbling with glee. ‘Cal-neva’ sounds pretty damn special tonight, yelped with vicious anger 
yet polished off with the three singers grinning like… well, since I can’t think of anything clever to say… three 
grinning people. I shouldn’t have to justify myself anymore than in saying that this band write, play, and, most 
importantly, enjoy playing wonderful, wonderful pop songs. Essentially, it’s this simple. If you don’t like 
Spraydog then you don’t like good music. Full fucking stop. 

-James Jam